


My Tale is Long and Full

by gentlemanadventurer



Category: Le Petit Chaperon Rouge | Little Red Riding Hood - Charles Perrault, Little Red Riding Hood (Fairy Tale), Little Red Riding Hood - All Media Types, Rotkäppchen | Little Red Riding Hood (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Compilation, F/F, F/M, Fairy Tales, Multi, Other, Poetry, Reimagining, Short Stories, micro fiction, more details than you ever wanted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 04:13:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11409981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlemanadventurer/pseuds/gentlemanadventurer
Summary: A compilation of the Little Red Riding Hood poetry and shorts.





	1. There are so many wolves

He's short and slender, stocky and just awkward enough to be endearing. He stutters slightly when he talks to you. When he asks you if you want to get coffee, you hesitate, but you say yes.

The woman is about your height, her arms taut with muscle and her hands confident and sure. Her skin is dark and a shock of black hair haloes around her head in a wild mass. She stretches, as the hem of her shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of skin and a tattoo you can’t make out.

There’s a quivering shadow against shadows. It has too many legs. It has too many teeth. Your hands tremble. It’s beautiful and you want to touch it.

The man is tall and his shoulders are broad. His suit is well-cut and elegant, a classic number in charcoal grey that looks almost black under the orange-tinted California night. You’d think he’d be wearing dress shoes, but they’re high, laced boots and they’re oddly scuffed.

A child in a hooded coat is crying. There are oversized ears sewn to it and it has a tail attached to the back. It’s green and grey and dirty.

You’ve never seen a dog that big, with ears so thickly furred and paws that spread so wide on the ground. A small part of you whispers “ _wolf…_ ” but that can’t possibly be true. It looks hungry. And lonely. You pull the meat out of your sandwich, knowing you’re making a mistake, certain you’re doing the right thing.

A kid is perched on the fire escape, their knees scabbed and feet bare as they grin down at you. They wave merrily and call out to you. You’re running late, but when they beckon to you, your feet turn that way.

Her hair curls around her shoulders perfectly, in a way you’ve always envied on others but never been able to achieve on yourself. There’s snow in her hair and in her eyelashes and there’s a thick woolen scarf wrapped around her up to her eyes. She’s locked out of her car.

* * *

 

They saw a wolf with blood on its fur and scraps of red fabric and assumed it had devoured you.


	2. And there are so many of You

The cloak is thick wool, and red. Her father made it when she was very small. Along the edges are flowers (tiny crocuses and apple blossoms) carefully embroidered. Her grandmother has worked on it for years, even as her hands began to tremble and ache. It’s been waiting for her for a long time. It finally fits. She will wear it when she goes to thank her grandmother.

Or once: She winds her mother’s old red shawl around her shoulders and, hesitating for only a moment, around her head to cover her ears. It’s cold out and as much as she might feel unfashionable, she hates the chill more than she cares what strangers on the street think of her style. It’s not snowing, not yet, but she fancies she can feel it in the air. She promised she’d get her sister soup and she’s not about to let weather break that promise, dammit. The cold sets into her the moment she leaves the house and begins the trip to the grocery store.

But sometimes: Her favorite hijab is red. It’s not too bright - not fire-truck bright - but deeper and richer. It reminds her of poppies in the late afternoon when the sun turns the world into the gold-tinted glory of its best self. Just now, the sun is fading behind the hills, the scrubby brown of the desert softening into blue and grey. She heaves her bag onto her shoulder and her back complains. Messenger bags are not meant for textbooks. Checking her phone, she sighs. The last bus has already departed. She will have to go by foot.

Or even: Her roommates tease her mercilessly for wearing a scarf with a hood, particularly with a short dress. After all, they say, if she was going to be cold, she should wear pants or at least tights. But it isn't for warmth that she pulls the hood over her hair, which is finally growing out of the buzzcut she hated. The skirt makes her happy. The hood makes her safe. Together, it's all she ever really wanted.

But also: She hasn't cut her hair since second grade and it hangs long down her back. It's heavy and she hates it. It feels like wearing a blanket over her head-a cheap child's ghost costume-but she would never hear the end of it if she did. The color, too, drives her crazy. If it was dull and brown, she could disappear, but the natural redness of it stands out. Strangers throw compliments at her as if she is a walking, talking art exhibit they can comment on at their leisure. It's pretty hair. Princess hair. Hair others would kill for. Yet all she wants to do is shave her fucking head.

And then: The moment she saw the red hoodie at Goodwill, she had to have it. Its tag was yellow, making it half-off, so she hunted down quarters, dimes, anything from the bottom of her threadbare backpack, the change trays of the vending machines outside, along the curb. It was enough to buy it, with four cents left over (she returned the pennies to the vending machine tray - perhaps someone else would need them). She grinned to herself as she took the sweatshirt from the cashier. It was clean and warm and had no holes in it. She put it on; it was supposed to rain on her dark walk home.


	3. Where to start

In the end, there is a…

 

No.

 

Wait a moment.

 

In the beginning, there was a…

 

That's not right.


	4. The wolf is

figurative.

  * Obviously, it represents your curiosity, your willingness to explore, your fear of your own mortality and weakness. It is your parents’ paranoia, the warnings you were told since you were little, the way your mother used to tie your shoes so securely your feet ached a little.
  * It’s the overgrown trees and the spiders hanging there on invisible threads, unseen until they’re in your hair. It is the alley and its shadows, cast by dumpsters and by fire escapes. It’s skin-crawling horror and skin-tingling desire and the clenching in the pit of your stomach that cannot be named.
  * The wolf is xenophobia. The wolf is naivety. The wolf is puberty. The wolf is a loss of innocence or the gain of knowledge. Or both. Or neither.



literal.

  * Okay, so this didn't happen to _me,_ but my cousin knows this guy whose sister totally went to school with this girl who...
  * Children must be wary of those who would steal them away.
  * The world is a terrifying place. Full of terrifying people and things.
  * Recognize your mortality, child.



monstrous.

  * It’s huge and slavering, a thing made up of nightmares. Your lingering fear of the dark owes its existence to this creature and its teeth.




	5. Taste

> Don’t stray from the path.  
> Even though it smells of garbage,  
> it is well-lit  
> and the other way is darker.   
>   
> My tale is long, and full,  
> with the occasional snarl.  
> I smelled of lilies (and you of rose)  
> from slipping through the florist  
> and we fled, laughing down the empty streets.   
>   
> You are as sure to die from the woodsman  
> as from the wolf.  
> Or perhaps your grandmother  
> in blankets, clean and white,  
> reaches out with her hands   
> (what great hands)   
> to grasp your red.  
> You are certain to die, after all;  
> whose teeth do you want  
> at your throat?  
>   
> The crimson scarf slipped off your hair so easily.   
>   
> “Don’t stray from the path.”   
> So their advice always begins.   
> Even though it smells of yesterday,   
> it is the same
> 
> and the other way is stranger.   
>   
>   
>  _Let me taste you, darling_

 


End file.
